


Prelude to Winter

by Liviapenn



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-02
Updated: 1999-10-02
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviapenn/pseuds/Liviapenn
Summary: Ray hates Scotchguarded things.





	Prelude to Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Prelude to Winter
    by Livia
    10/02/99
    
    Leaning at a precise angle over the rumpled bed, Fraser 
    brushes a cool farewell kiss across Ray's cheek.
    
    Ray lies still. He hates this part. Doesn't Fraser want to 
    stay? He thinks so, sure. But every day Fraser showers and 
    heads off to the Consulate, so what's the deal? He guesses 
    that Fraser takes the early shift more often nowadays so he 
    can spend more nights with Ray. He doesn't ask, though, 'cause 
    what if he's wrong?
    
    It chafes him already, the bare stark fact that the Canuck 
    leaves. And the possibility that he might want it this way-- 
    that Fraser might be choosing to shower and get gone before 
    dawn-- well, half the time it burns Ray up. Half the time it 
    makes him bitterly cold inside. 
    
    It doesn't help that on the Mountie, the morning after looks 
    just like the day before. In bed, Fraser sweats, wrestles, 
    begs in slurred, slutty French; but in the morning, he's 
    pristine. He smells clean, hygenic almost, like snow. Like no 
    one's ever even thought of touching him, like no one ever 
    has. And if Ray sees him at the station, the Constable is 
    cool, calm and crisp. Businesslike.
    
    It eats at Ray. It bugs the hell out of him. Stella would say 
    it's because he's possessive, controlling, probably immature, 
    too. Stella would say a lot of things. She always did. 
    
    In the morning, fresh from the shower, Fraser's skin glows 
    like a marble statue, off behind a velvet rope in an air-
    conditioned museum. Like a silent field under a thick coat of 
    snow, during a long winter.
    
    White as soap. Clean as snow. Ray is _cold_.
    
    So he sits up, growling low in his throat, hoarse with sleep 
    and last night's moaning. Heedless of starch and serge, 
    buttons and buckles, he strikes, tangling his limbs around 
    Fraser. Tugging at his collar, Ray twists both their bodies 
    till they're half on, half off the bed. Surprise is his ally, 
    and a sure knowledge of the terrain. _Mountie, your ass is 
    mine_.
    
    It only takes a minute. Ray lets go when he's done. And damn, 
    it's good. Very good. Fraser's a whole new kind of perfect-- 
    red-faced, off-balance, eyes a little wild. And he dropped his 
    hat, which makes Ray grin, almost meanly. 
    
    Leaning forward, he brushes a chaste, mocking kiss across 
    Fraser's flushed cheek. As he pulls back, Fraser's eyes sharpen, search
    his, and Ray's smile loses some of its rough joy. 
    Despite himself, it fades. He can see it mirrored in Fraser's 
    eyes as it slides past wistful, into needy. It feels... far, 
    far too vulnerable.
    
    He falls back into his pillow, turning his back to Fraser. A 
    chill shudders up his spine, the first frost of 'shit-- oh 
    shit-- it seemed like a good idea at the time.' He tugs the 
    blankets around him tightly. 
    
    After a bare and silent moment, Ray hears Fraser stoop and 
    palm his hat. 
    
    He shuts Ray's bedroom door behind him with precisely no more 
    and no less than his usual quiet consideration.
    
    By the time dawn breaks over Chicago, Ray knows, a lovely dark 
    hickey will have blossomed on the Mountie's neck. Maybe his 
    uniform collar will hide it. Maybe it won't. Slowly, over the 
    course of the day, the bruise on that white neck like a snowy 
    field will darken. Ripen. 
    
    Ray doesn't know if the taste in his mouth is bitter, or 
    sweet.
    
    [end]
    
    visit livia's library at: 
    
    http://internettrash.com/users/livia/
    
    


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